To be a thing of staggering perfection

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To be a thing of staggering perfection,

Unlost in a crowd of typography,

But not to the masses of passerby,

Rather to one specific soul

Who sees a light in dim, dust rooms

And teases mischief with a knowing smile,

Who catches a cloud that tries to flee,

He even would capture me.

The moment that our eyes meet

We will know the years ahead,

Unfolding, peeling away

At the surface of our futures.

We are the same, yet marvel

At how the other can exist.

He thinks of me as a myth, a wind

That both softens the night

And lures sailors to the open sea.

To me, he is a relic

Of an ancient time, of human history

And he is the ground

Upon which time continues.

He is the secret of the night’s cool wind,

And the promise of dawn’s fair light.

A static elation fills the moments,

There isn’t much need for anyone else,

We are isolated in our bond.

The race for progress has no end,

We carry ourselves to the edge of the earth

And hang our feet over the nothing that will come

When the silly spinning stills.

We share a connection so firmly set

Deep within our very identities.

It’s a knowing faith, a devoted warmth,

So omnipresent that even now,

As I write and walk and learn alone,

I wait for him and he waits for me,

All the while aware of what we have,

What we have had all along.

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